


Body a Cage, Soul on Fire

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [61]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genetic Disorders & Abnormalities, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Isolation, M/M, Major Illness, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach-Related, Solitude, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits atop the world, but he sits alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body a Cage, Soul on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Biggest Trigger Warning ever for Terminal Illness. It's a major theme of the story. Story revolves around it. Please do not read this if it's going to hurt you, okay? <3 I didn't even post this on Tumblr because I was worried it might accidentally get clicked or something like that.
> 
> #99: Solitude

**Fifteen Years Ago**

 

“And you’re sure?” James swallows, a shiver running down his spine in a relatively warm doctor’s office, “There is no doubt?” His legs hang limply off the exam table. Twenty beautiful minutes ago he’d only been _afraid_ for a single possibility. 

“I could run the test again…” The doctor, male, mid-forties, seems sympathetic. A specialist in genetic disease, he must give this news a lot. It’s good. It’s convincing, maybe could’ve been comforting if the young man were capable of being comforted. 

James clutches at the spot on his arm where the blood was drawn, feeling violated. The needle had slipped in so easily, drawing out his deepest secrets. Displayed them on a microscope, printed them across sheets of paper. His own body let him down, producing _poison_ and _defect_. But denial was never his style, and these tests are regrettably so accurate, “That won’t be necessary.”

The physician reaches forward, heavy hand on James’ shoulder, “Mr. Brook, you’re only twenty. Seeing as it hit your mother relatively late, it is most likely you have a lot of time before you’ll even _begin_ to see symptoms.”

“… and how long will I have after that?” Mother was still alive, after all. Just not _well_. 

“It affects everyone with slight variation…” His voice is careful, measured. That look of sympathy has dried up, not wanting to exacerbate the emotional tension in the room, “On average, twenty years. There will, however, but some progressive mental instabilities that will compromise your understanding of that time…”

_So I won’t even know who I am for the last ten. If lucky. Joy._ James shrugs the hand off his shoulder, running his fingernails hard over his face, “How will I know when it _starts_?”

“I could recommend some literature- ”

“ _No_.” James shook his head, “I don’t want to _grieve_ over this, doctor, I want to know when my _uninhibited_ life will be essentially over.”

He purses his lips a moment, “There will be personality changes, but you may not notice them on your own.” He sighs, “The most common will be physical. Random movements you don’t control — could seem as unassuming as restlessness. Or loss of coordination, slower eye movements… Once that begins, you will have about three years before they become obtrusive.”

James nods. Restlessness. Loss of control. Coordination. “Personality changes?” He presses. He knows himself well enough to detect them. Or maybe he’d hire someone for that. Three years wouldn’t be suitable forewarning. 

“Irritability, anxiety, apathy, and depression are the most common and self-checkable.” The doctor writes down something — the title of a book, from what James can see — “Obsessive compulsive behavior and psychosis affect a very low percentage, and can’t really be self-observed, as they affect the part of the brain that makes rational judgment.” 

Numb. James has gone numb. Still not in denial, resolved _never_ to hope for a cure. If it happened, it happened. But unlikely, and he should find a way to make good on whatever time he had left. Dear mum was out of the picture now at 45, though she’d been symptomatic for much longer.

“We have people you can talk to.” The doctor continued, James steeped in silence, “Is there anyone you want us to call?” 

“No one can know.” James snaps, but quickly clears his throat. _Hate the message, not the messenger,_ he thinks, straightening his tie, “There is no one.”

“It is my professional recommendation that you seek someone for support.” He says, writing a name down — counselor, therapist, psychiatrist? — handing the paper to Jim, “And if you need anything, my office is always open.”

James breathes a moment before taking it; the paper would be crushed before he even got back to his car, but something else was growing inside him.

His life would be short, but he’d do _something_ with it. Something great and terrible, abundant. Perhaps his body would die, but he is determined to live _more_ than anyone else ever had. 

 

* * *

 

In truth, he hadn’t thought much about Carl Powers at all since his murder. All James had wanted was to stop being made fun of, and he had. Simple as that. He’d never been one for greed or excessive wrath, so long as he could find a quiet space of his own.

It’d almost been a decade, and James Brook had been careful to keep his head down. Getting caught hadn’t really been a possibility without the trainers (which he’d kept in a shoebox under the floorboards at his father’s house), but the fact that they were _missing_ had caught the attention of another little boy with a funny name. One he hadn’t thought of in as many years, so why was he on his mind _now?_  

Simply: Sherlock Holmes would now be his biggest obstacle, even if James already had the upper hand. In order to turn the world on its ear, to subvert the system, he’d need a _nemesis_ , one to reveal his presence, to speak of it, much like a prophet. A relationship of push and pull, hide and seek. Yet like in a good chess game, he’d also need to keep seven steps ahead of him. 

But maybe when the time came, when the game was over, if he was very, very lucky, Sherlock Holmes would be the one to end his suffering. 

 

* * *

 

Within years, James Brook is now Jim Moriarty, both hiding his previous identity (and therefor, his medical records) and subtly distancing himself from the man with an expiration date.

No one knows who he is. Very few people are even aware they’ve _seen_ him. But they’ve heard whispers of a name. Told tales, myths of his ingenuity, intellect, legendary abilities to solve _problems_. Some doubt he’s even a single entity of man, unconvinced any _one_ man could be so extraordinary.

But there he is, sitting on a metaphysical throne of crime, lies, secrets and brimming bank accounts. He could easily retire, and take several people on extended vacation with him. Still, it isn’t enough. 

He sits atop the world, but he sits alone. 

 

* * *

 

**You’re very protected. -SH**

 

It’s the first text Sherlock ever sends him. Hadn’t even been a few hours since they first laid eyes on each other, mutually. Within arm’s reach, Jim had felt oh-so close to him. Closer than he’d ever been to anyone else, even the dullards he’d given in and fucked for the hell of it. 

_No one ever gets to me_. Jim had openly boasted, quickly giving in to lament, _And no one ever will_. A clue. One he’d never given anyone else, but Sherlock deserved it. Really, the criminal was just curious what he’d do with it. 

 

**The team of snipers tip you off? -JM**

 

**I didn’t mean physically. -SH**

 

Jim smirks: the detective is fishing, hooked so thoroughly that he’s seeking reciprocation. However, the Irishman has had twelve years to perfect the art of verbal evasion.

 

**Mystery is my greatest weapon. -JM**

 

**Then it was careless to tip off your main adversary. -SH**

 

**I like watching you dance. Perhaps the hint was just to test your skills? -JM**

 

**The entire game was to test my skills. -SH**

**And you wouldn’t lie to me. -SH**

 

**I wouldn’t? -JM**

 

**Omit the truth, yes. Smear, yes. Obscure, hide, warp, any number of verbs. -SH**

**But the information, real information, would always be there. -SH**

 

Jim frowns at the screen. Even though he _is_ right, the detective is far too sure of himself, and the older man is _far_ too afraid of letting anyone get close. 

 

**Then I’ll stop talking. -JM**

 

**That’s fine. -SH**

**But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer if we spent some more time together. -SH**

**Silently. -SH**

 

It’s… a novel idea. One that takes Jim so completely by surprise that he restarts his phone just to make sure it wasn’t a glitch. But the words stare him in the face. _Time together_ , he mulls the phrase over, churning it in his brain. He’d never had a friend, even before his diagnosis. Then afterwards… he didn’t need more reasons to detest his flesh, to make him regret leaving this mortal coil. Or even reasons to “fight” it, when the drugs to lessen the severity of symptoms all had worse side-effects.

But it’s _Sherlock_ , and try he might, Jim can’t help but reply:

 

**Right now? -JM**

 

**Neither of us are sleeping anyway. -SH**

 

Well… he hadn’t even changed out of his Westwood. Jim checks his watch, both on his wrist and in his mind. Three in the morning. Thirty-two years old. Grabbing his coat, he reasons that there was still time to mess around.

But not much.

 

* * *

 

Companionship. It’s a foreign word to Jim, and until now had been practically a cuss. But he isn’t thinking about that. 

No, Jim’s searched his entire life for a _distraction_ from his inevitable fate, and finally he’s found one in the world’s only consulting detective. They exchange ideas. Discuss theoretical logistics of crimes (that Jim can never use, lest Sherlock catch on to him with an unfair advantage). Information flows from every pore, effervesced by one, absorbed by the other. 

They go on walks on nights with low visibility (couldn’t risk getting caught). Hole up in each others’ flats, away from prying eyes. Sometimes it’s just quiet, like Sherlock promised. 

Eventually, their hands accidentally brush, breaking the unspoken taboo on the physical. But in that same breath, the restriction is gone, solidified by a kiss. It doesn’t change much, though the touch is absolutely _electric_. 

Still, they spend much time apart. Two different, combative lives. Secret, forbidden, but that’s half of what makes it sexy. 

They send love letters in the form of cat and mouse — Jim lets a fun case slip through his iron-grip, Sherlock runs after it. Constant communication, even if they hadn’t spoken in weeks. 

It is in this manner, warm, loving, sweet, that two years pass by. 

He doesn’t notice the feelings of despair anymore, even as they grow in frequency. He makes excuses for himself: irritable one day because he hadn’t slept enough, anxious because he had a big deal to set up, apathetic about his accomplishments because they were legion by now.

Unconsciously, he avoids Sherlock on the bad days.  

 

* * *

 

It happens on a lazy afternoon at 221B. 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks, moving his book out of his line of sight to gaze down at Jim, resting on his bare torso.

“Hm?” Jim looks up at him, “Yeah, why?”

“You’re… not nervous or anything?” The detective continues, putting the book on his nightstand, shifting the covers off him.

“I… no?” Jim squints, then his eyes fall away from those blue eyes. _Oh no_. 

“Your hand…” Sherlock nods his head at his chest, where Jim’s fingers had been resting. Or so the criminal had thought, “It’s shaking.” Shaking while resting on a warm surface. 

“Maybe some pent-up energy…” Jim says, feigning nonchalance as best he can, but snatches up his hand all the same. He recoils, pushing off the bed and gathering his clothes, “Should be doing work…” 

“Jim…” Sherlock’s voice trails, that way it does when people have so rarely been concerned for him, “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” Jim shakes his head, dressed in record time, buttoning his cuffs together with vigor, hiding that his hand was still shaking. “I just… should really go. ‘Dear Jim’ emails to read and all…”

The detective sits up, leaning out of bed, barely catching Jim by the wrist, “Talk to me.” 

“ _Leave it_.” He hisses, forcibly yanking his wrist away.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, corner of his mouth twitching, “ _Why_ would someone freak-out over a harmless tic?”

“ _Don’t_.” Jim backs away, suddenly feeling very small. Sherlock is naked, sitting, and by all means shouldn’t seem so damn _powerful_. Jim is dressed well, standing, walking away. _Was_ walking away, now frozen with fear.

“Unless it’s not _harmless_.” Sherlock considers, tilting his head back and forth, as if wracking his brain for his diagnostic tools. 

“ _Sherlock_.” Jim’s voice cracks, gone almost instantly from commanding to _begging_. He doesn’t blame the detective, he really doesn’t — he’s only doing what comes naturally. At least, Jim has to believe that. That this isn’t some cruel, awful punishment, designed to unravel him.

“Is it killing you, or threatening to?” Sherlock grimaces, _sadness_ at the potential loss hitting him. Pity. “No, you’re dying. If you had any hope at all, it wouldn’t be eating at you… all the money in the world at your disposal, and you can do nothing… but you’d forgotten about this ailment. Meaning it’s not affecting your everyday life-” 

“ _Shut up!_ ” Jim breaks, nearly screaming, a hand pulling at his hair. Sherlock blinks, following the order. “This… this doesn’t concern you, alright?” He’s holding it together remarkably well seeing as this is already the most he’d ever thought about it in _years_ , “You just said — _reminded me_ — there’s no hope, no cure, _nothing_. I don’t want to talk about it. Respect that.” 

Not that Sherlock had ever considered the _concept_ of respect. “I could help. I know people-”

“ _Huntington’s_.” Jim snarls through gritted teeth. Sherlock immediately goes quiet. There hadn’t been one drug trial yet that showed promising results beyond the palliative, “Still think you can _save_ me?”

He’s never said it out loud. It doesn’t feel better. It’s still true. He’d accepted it long ago, didn’t mean he’d _ever_ be happy about it. Thirty-five now, and symptoms had begun. Probably before now, but he was too _distracted_ by Sherlock to see it. 

“My body is a _cage_ , Sherlock.” Jim continues, the grind of his molars giving him a headache, but he persisted, “There’s nothing you or anyone else can do. I _thank_ you for the last few years. They have helped me forget, even for a little while, but _this_ -” he waves his hand, “- _this_ marks the beginning of the _worse_.”

Sherlock is stunned. Hadn’t moved since Jim had named his illness. It’s too awkward, too stuffy with emotion in this room — he feels like it’s fifteen years ago, but now he’s the doctor and Sherlock is the patient. The feeling one has when they first get the news that terminal illnesses are _real_. 

He finds his legs again, turning back to the door. 

“ _Jim_.” Sherlock calls, finding his voice again, “Come back to bed.”

He doesn’t. 

 

* * *

 

Days pass. Jim plans. Ignores Sherlock’s every attempt (even the clever one with the smuggled incendiaries). He tries not to watch his hand, but he checks it obsessively. Sometimes it shakes, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s a small comfort that it doesn’t get worse.

But it’s there. 

And it will. Not day-to-day, nerves were resilient. So was his brain, which would work ceaselessly to keep things at bay.

However. Soon it’d be his brain, too. Irreparable, and he would have no control over it when it happened. Wouldn’t _realize_ how bad things were getting as he made excuses for himself until it was too late, and he couldn’t even give the command for someone to end it all. 

No, no. That absolutely would not do.

So he plans.

In no time at all, these plans are made material. As raw and damaged as the pile of bodies left in his path. No. _Their_ path. 

In Jim’s little game, Sherlock is a co-conspirator, slowly giving him the information over the years he’d need to completely destroy him. All but the core message is a lie: the detective was the villain the whole time.

The world was so small to believe that if you were _sleeping_ with the enemy, you must be in on it all. At worst, the detective had turned a blind eye. But as the world slowly turned on him, Jim couldn’t help but smile.

_You’re just as alone as I am…_

Texts. Right on time. 

 

**Come and play. SH**

**Bart’s Hospital rooftop. SH**

**P.S. Got something of yours you might want back. SH**

 

Reading them out, Jim realizes he’s never had to handle goodbyes. He’d always left before attachments formed enough that they’d be necessary. Sherlock didn’t deserve one, but it seemed unavoidable now. 

One goodbye. And it’d be over. Jim smiled. _Over_ was something he’d been waiting fifteen years for, but always had something else that needed to be done. Some way his time could be better used. Finally, time had run out.

A last hurrah. 

And it _would_ be the last.

He tucked the Beretta into his suit pocket, walking out onto the roof. _Don’t be scared._ _It’s just Sherlock._

 

**I’m waiting… JM**

 


End file.
